The King and His Prince
by thoughtsofanonymous
Summary: [Red Rebellion/Never Seas Future Oneshot] The shadow tries to convince Peter Pan's son to run away to Neverland.


**Requested Prompt: "LizPan kids one day in the distant future. I just want to see them as parents. :3" **

* * *

The night air had grown cold and dry. Even under the constant hum of Peter's breath on the nape of her neck, Elizabeth battled her need to get up to retrieve yet another blanket over her lingering exhaustion. Sleep had not been her ally during her second pregnancy. Everything in her body didn't work right; she was always cold, uncharacteristically weak and never hungry.

Seeing as it was near the end of her final term, she was relieved to be rid of the sicknesses that had ravaged her throughout the long, nine months. No more coughing, sniffling, migraines, _excessive_ nausea (because it was a bullet she couldn't dodge in the mornings anyways), or fever.

Peter had gotten better about stepping back and giving her space to breathe; however, given the physical incapacitation she underwent in the past few months, he had for the most part stayed close by her side like some hyperactive watchdog.

Elizabeth let out a breathy groan when the baby kicked hard against her side. She rubbed her bulging belly in soothing circles, which had worked with her first son Billy, but not so much with this kid. Her soon-to-be born daughter was having _none_ of it; her tantrums would surely be legendary if she was able to give Lizzie this much hell before even being born.

She lied there in the quiet, uncomfortable darkness of the room, enduring kick after kick. Much to her relief, Peter did not awaken from his deep sleep as he usually did. She rolled a little ways upwards closer against his chest to gather more warmth from him. Peter reacted subconsciously, tightening his hold around her and burying his face deeper into the corner of her neck.

Suddenly, she heard their bedroom door give off a light _squeak_. Elizabeth listened to the light footsteps that scurried over to Peter's side of the bed. She could recognize the sound of her little son even in the dark: _Billy_.

Billy went straight over to his father's end stand before carefully rustling through the disarray of items.

Lizzie expected him to walk over to her side. Normally the routine would be him asking for a glass of water or to share the bed after having had a terrible nightmare. Instead, the boy left without sharing a single word with his attentive mother.

She frowned in confusion, finally using all the strength she could to lift her head up and observe the dark empty room. Their bedroom door was left just barely cracked open.

"Peter," Elizabeth murmured over her shoulder to Peter, who still had her enveloped in his arms. She rubbed his bare bicep soothingly in an effort to stir him. He hummed lazily in her ear, pulling her closer against his chest while bringing his hand down to rest over her swelled stomach. She sighed, "Peter, wake up."

The light urgency in her voice finally pulled him from his sleepy state. She could feel his arms clench around her in protective instinct as he tilted his head down to the base of her collarbone. "What is it? Are you alright?"

She turned in his arms to meet his groggy, yet nevertheless apprehensive frown. "We're fine, I just need you to go check on Billy."

"Why, what's the matter?"

"He just came in here but then left without a word."

His body relaxed around her, letting an easy sigh before brushing his lips over the exposed skin of her shoulder. Without another word, he obliged her request and started to unravel himself off her. The cool night air seeped through the thin sheets as he moved back the thick comforter, sending a trickle of chills up Lizzie's back in Peter's absence.

* * *

Billy's light scampers echoed down the hallway as the little boy ran back to his room. His plain, dark green cotton pajamas swayed in the chilly breeze that came from the open windows. He slipped through the open door and slammed it, energized by the hot tears that had begun to blur his vision. The adrenaline of his emotions fueled his racing heart. Gripping the stolen relic in his miniature fisted palm, the young boy immediately made his way to the bookcase where he had constructed a series of stepping columns out of chairs and his grandfather's leather-bound books. He kicked off his loose slippers so that his bare toes could curl over the ends of each step. Slowly but surely, he carefully climbed his way to the top. His fluffy golden hair brushed the ceiling of his bedroom as he crouched near the edge.

Peter stepped into the bedroom without a word of warning, frozen in place by the sight of his five year-old son perched on the very edge of a high fall. His eyes narrowed, "Billy…"

"No!" The little boy cried out in a tearful rage, gripping his father's vial of pixie dust in his little palm. "I'm leaving and you can't stop me!"

Peter pushed back his initial wave of anxiety, easing his features into a mask of confusion to soothe his son's emotional fit. "Might I ask where are you going?"

"Neverland."

"Is that right?" Peter smiled amusingly up at his son. "And how do you plan on getting there?"

"I'll fly there," Billy answered with determination, ripping the cork off of the small vial of enchanted dust. "I know how to. I've done it before in my dreams."

"To fly in reality is something entirely different than to fly in your dreams. It takes much more than a spark of imagination." Peter casually made his way across the room closer to the bookshelf, keeping his critical gaze trained up at his son. "Besides, you don't know the way to Neverland from here. I'm the only one that does."

"The shadow can bring me," the boy mumbled uneasily. "It told me it would come."

"The _shadow_," Peter repeated, his voice hushing into a venomous whisper. "Oh, I invite it to come and try." Billy pursed his lips together tightly, refraining from crying in front of his father. "Only lost boys belong in Neverland, Billy."

"I _am_ a lost boy! You and Mum don't want me anymore! The shadow told me so. It said you're replacing me with a _girl_."

"That's the most ludicrous thing I've ever heard come out of your mouth." Peter's frown darkened into a hard scowl. "That shadow will _burn_ before it ever lays a hand on you."

"No!" Billy glared down at Peter, challenging him with his furious, hazel-green stare. What with his short, wavy golden locks and impressive height of a boy of his age, he was the spitting image of his father, which didn't help soothe Peter's nerves in the slightest. The boy shot a glance out the window towards the promise of the starry sky, then back to the vial in his hands. "The shadow told me you would give me away to a new family to make room for the baby. That's what happens when new babies come; parents get rid of their older children. The baby girl will get my room and have all my toys and have you and Mum and I'll have nothing!"

"No one could ever replace you!" Peter glared up at his child furiously. "You're my first child; my only boy. Gaining a sister wouldn't change that." The anger that Billy so clearly roused in his father offered him a strange comfort. He looked down to his father with uncertainty, still gripping the vial of dust tight in his palm. "Whatever that shadow told you is a lie: a _dirty, rotten lie_ meant to steal you away from me. Your mother and I could never let go of you."

Billy blinked, "You're not sending me away?"

"Never," Peter growled, consumed with fury that the shadow would have the audacity to try and turn his own son away from him. A hot tear finally slipped out from the crevice of the little boy's eye as he gripped the edge of the bookshelf. His eyes winced shut; letting out the first choked sob he had been holding back. Peter reached up the bookshelf towards Billy, "Come down, son."

The boy looked at his father's hands, though aggressively shook his head in defiance. Peter glared persistently up at him, "Billy, the dust only works for me, Neverland's rightful King. I will not have you getting hurt."

Billy stood up with shaky legs, gripping the vial tightly in his small, sweaty palm. He finally edged towards the bookshelf, near where Peter held his arms out for him. "I still want to fly."

"Even if you had proper dust, it's a lot harder than it looks."

Billy furrowed his brows in frustration. He dreamed of flying like how his father had done in the bedtime stories he had been told. Every cross of doubt that Peter conveyed to him only fueled his drive to pursue his dreams further.

All his life, Billy was compared to his father; his looks, his mischievous games, his relentless need to keep moving, his determination always to win. Billy was sick of being compared. He was sick of the stories. He wanted action. He wanted more than just the title of Pan's son; he wanted to live it.

"Billy…-" Before Peter could get out his last word, the boy jumped off the bookshelf. Peter lifted his arms to catch him, though only felt the tips of his son's fingers graze his arm as a green aura suspended the boy in midair.

At first, all Billy could do was gawk down at his father. His wide hazel-green eyes shared the same incredulous shock as Peter's. For a short moment, the two boys shared identical reactions of thrill and disbelief. As the sensation set in, a boyish grin stretched over Billy's face in the place of his fear. He let out a short-lived giggle, reaching down to grasp his father's outstretched hands.

"Dad, I'm flying," the boy laughed, green eyes alighted with adrenaline. "I'm really flying."

Peter beamed up to his son proudly, taking his hand and gently leading him away from the bookshelf towards the middle of the room. Billy half-laughed, half-gasped each time his balance reared off in a certain direction and he wavered in midair.

"I've got you," Peter murmured reassuringly, keeping his boy steady as Billy observed the bedroom below him. "Are you ready to come down?"

Billy shook his head insistently, though nonetheless reached out for Peter's shoulders as his father pulled him down into his arms. "Told you I could do it," Billy murmured lightly against his shoulders.

"Never again will I doubt you," Peter grinned. "Though I'd say for now it's best to just keep this little secret between us."

* * *

Elizabeth pressed her head against the plush pillow. She squinted her eyes shut to silently endure what felt like somersaults tumbling right and left inside of her womb. "Mum." She heard Billy mumble near the door to their room.

She looked over her shoulder to find Peter carrying a very tired looking Billy over to their bedside. Peter lowered Billy down over the sheets to let him crawl close to Lizzie's side. He nestled himself in his mother's arms, wrapping his body over her to snuggle her close.

"Careful," Peter murmured lowly, though was calmed by Lizzie's reassuring smile. He joined their side soon after. He had to battle with his son for a space to wrap his arm over Elizabeth. In the close proximity of her two boys, Lizzie was grateful when her daughter's painful kicking gradually subdued. It seemed even the baby knew when to quit.

Just as Billy started to drift into sleep, he felt Peter's hand weave through his little fingers, placing the vial of pixie dust in their shared grasp. A smile perked up the little boy's face as his father brushed a proud, affectionate kiss over the back of his head; a promise that it wouldn't be the last flying lesson they shared.

The shadow did not return to Billy's dreams that night, or any other night afterwards. There were no more disturbances in the house, nor were there any intrusions through windows. Billy dreamed of himself flying through white, misted clouds towards an island doused in sunlight and colorful beams, surrounded by an ocean tropical blue, where seagulls avidly cawed over the crash of waves and mermaids cheered with welcome smiles at his arrival. He dreamed of _his_ Neverland. The Neverland he had just inherited where there were no shadows lurking in dark corners of the forest, waiting to taint children's hearts black. It was the Neverland his father was willing to give him.

Peter Pan dreamed of fire so that his son could dream of paradise.

Peter dreamed of himself, seventeen years old again, wearing tattered green clothing, a belt buckle, high-strung boots and two tied bands over his wrists. He stood in front of a wall of fire cast out of his own fingertips, invigorated by the crackling symphony of destruction and echoing screams of disintegrating shadows. Crossing his arms with a shadowed grin, Peter Pan watched with pleasure as every last inch of Dark Hollow burned to the ground.


End file.
